


day by day

by iserlohn (lincesque)



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22000189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/pseuds/iserlohn
Summary: Bittenfeld dismounts, half stumbling when his boots hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. He coughs, throat dry and parched from the long ride. Tiger shakes her head in displeasure and huffs a moist breath into his hair, almost knocking off his hat. She stamps a hoof and whickers in what sounds like amusement when Bittenfeld makes a fast grab for his hat, battered like the rest of his outfit.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	day by day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sufferando](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sufferando/gifts).



> my fic for [galactic santa 2019](https://twitter.com/galacticsantas)~
> 
> i haven't written pure gen for so long (actually. just haven't written fic in so long ha) wasn't sure of much but bittenfeld in a cowboy hat was an amusing mental image so i went with that XD
> 
> happy holidays [nigel](twitter.com/CowboyinCustody)! hope this is kind of what you wanted ????? xD

*

Bittenfeld dismounts, half stumbling when his boots hit the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. He coughs, throat dry and parched from the long ride. Tiger shakes her head in displeasure and huffs a moist breath into his hair, almost knocking off his hat. She stamps a hoof and whickers in what sounds like amusement when Bittenfeld makes a fast grab for his hat, battered like the rest of his outfit.

He’s still bleeding sluggishly from his side, his fingers coming away smeared with red when he presses a hand over the stinging wound. His target had a good aim for sure, or just plain lucky, the only shot he managed to get off grazing Bittenfeld’s side when he was just a split second too slow. However, Bittenfeld wasn’t going to underestimate him a second time. Lessons not learned quick often led to a brief and bloody career for bounty hunters like him.

“You little devil,” Bittenfeld mutters but without much heat. His fingers on Tiger’s muzzle is gentle, a few brief pets of her soft nose as she preens under the attention, arching her neck and nuzzling into his hand.

“Oh, you’re back.” Muller’s silver hair gleams underneath the midday sun as he pokes his head out from the backdoor of the inn, obviously having heard the sound of Tiger’s hoofbeats. He’s dressed neatly, as usual, white apron spotless as he wipes his hands off on the equally clean towel slung over a slim shoulder.

Bittenfeld manages a smile for the other man, not much more than a boy still, despite his height and the air of maturity. Muller had inherited the inn from a distant relative a couple of years back, leaving his home and family behind in order to forge his own way. Bittenfeld always had thought Muller too soft for a rough and tumble place like this, out of place like a plump, pampered pet rabbit dumped in the middle of a forest during hunting season.

His views were shared widely at the start by many of the town's inhabitants, no one had thought Muller capable of lasting more than a couple of months. However, eventually, Muller's kind nature and his hard work season after season at keeping the inn up and running had won the majority of people over, Bittenfeld himself included.

“You’re hurt.” Muller’s small smile of welcome creases into something resembling concern when he notices Bittenfeld’s injury. He’s been innkeeper at this backwater crossroads town for long enough though that he merely steps forward, fingers light against the torn leather of Bittenfeld’s vest as he tugs it to one side for a closer look.

“It looks worse than it actually is,” Bittenfeld says, hissing softly when his undershirt tugs at a patch of dried blood, barely scabbing over the edge of the wound.

“Hm.” Muller makes a soft sound but the frown smooths away mostly, Bittenfeld’s self-diagnosis obviously matching his own opinion on the matter. He remains as soft-hearted as ever, Bittenfeld notes with a sort of grudging fondness. 

“You’re in luck, Mecklinger is back and has a room upstairs,” Muller tells him, taking up Tiger’s reins and leading her towards the stables. He glances over his shoulder and narrows his eyes at Bittenfeld. “Your usual room is empty, I’ll bring your things up for you once I settle Tiger. Go see Mecklinger and get him to patch you up in the meantime.”

Bittenfeld grunts out his thanks and limps into the blissful coolness of the inn proper, pushing open the double doors. There’s only a few people here at this time of the day, one or two familiar faces who nod or tip their hat at him as he walks past. Bittenfeld doesn't pause, barely taking the time to nod back as he heads straight towards the stairs.

He almost misses the two men seated in a corner, just next to the spiral staircase, blending into the shadows almost with their dark blue coats. The one with darker hair, seated directly facing Bittenfeld’s way, meets his gaze with a slow blink before glancing away just as slowly, seemingly unconcerned. His companion sitting opposite actually turns on his stool to pin Bittenfeld with a cold, impersonal gaze briefly before obviously dismissing him.

Bittenfeld would usually bristle and pick a fight at such a blatant challenge but it’s been almost a week since his last hot bath and close to two days without proper food. His side aches almost as much as his thighs from the long ride. Muller would also probably be upset if he chased away customers, even more so if Bittenfeld himself passed out from light-headedness halfway through.

Still, Bittenfeld makes sure to commit both their faces to memory for future reference, even as he winces his way up the stairs, each step jarring the injury on his side just a little more. He's just at the top of the staircase, pondering which room was Mecklinger's this time when possible his least favorite person appears out of nowhere, like an unwanted bad smell.

“You’re still alive.” The cool, toneless voice from behind makes Bittenfeld grit his teeth, taking a few deep breaths just like Muller had told him to last time, trying to bank the smoldering anger within his chest. He resists from pulling out his gun, if barely, and glances over his shoulder.

“Oberstein,” Bittenfeld says and it would almost even be polite except for the way he’s had to push the name out from between clenched teeth.

Oberstein is even more neatly put together than Muller, which is also like usual. His grey vest crisp and a sharp contrast to his pressed white shirt tucked neatly into dark trousers. His faithful dog sits at his heel, dark eyes fixed on Bittenfeld, poised and tensed as if expecting to defend its master at any moment. Oberstein himself stands straight, hands tucked behind his back, the solid white streak of his hair is neatly brushed to fall behind his ear.

The brief incline of Oberstein’s head is almost mocking as he continues on his way, brushing past Bittenfeld. “I won’t keep you from the good doctor,” he says and doesn’t bother to look back. His dog does though, keeping his gaze on Bittenfeld as both he and his master make their way downstairs.

Bittenfeld stays still until the clicks of Oberstein’s bootheels can no longer be heard. His shoulders slump and he exhales, shaking his head a little as a door a couple of meters ahead opens with a whiny creak of wood.

Mecklinger’s frowning a bit, but he gestures to Bittenfeld. “Presume you’re here to see me?” he asks, only half-expecting a reply. His sharp eyes have obviously spotted the blood as he makes a tsking sound and withdraws. When Bittenfeld follows him inside, not bothering to close the door behind himself, Mecklinger’s already boiling some water on his little stove.

He points to a chair near the window, half-distracted with pulling equipment out from his kit. “Sit,” he tells Bittenfeld, voice sharp, and Bittenfeld drops into the chair obediently.

Mecklinger was the only doctor within the county who could be somewhat trusted and wasn’t completely buzzed off his face when you needed him to remove a bullet or two. No one in their right mind challenged him without very good reason.

Mecklinger's hands are cool against the heated skin of Bittenfeld’s side, touch impersonal as he helps Bittenfeld strip off his vest and then his dirty shirt. 

“These need to be burned,” Mecklinger tells him, nose wrinkling as he tosses the offending articles to the floor. “Otherwise if you waste away because of an infection, I’m going to do nothing more than ignore you.” Bittenfeld rolls his eyes, well used to Mecklinger’s fastidiousness and strict adherence to cleanliness by now. “Yeah, yeah.”

“The wound is shallow but long,” Mecklinger says after a moment, placing the cloth he had used to clean Bittenfeld’s wound back into the metal bowl. The water within was murky with a mix of dirt and blood. Mecklinger takes another steaming cloth from another pot, prepared earlier, and wipes his hands clean.

“It’ll need a few stitches to hold it together,” Mecklinger continues after pressing the pads of his now clean fingers against the edges of the injury, reaching for something from his bag of tricks laid open and waiting on his nightstand.

Bittenfeld grunts and shrugs, indicating for him to get on with it. Mecklinger’s hand is steady as he picks up a thin needle and passes it through the flame on his still burning stove with a pair of tongs. He had previously explained on a couple of occasions that this helped to kill off any parasites that caused infections, which were too small for the naked eye to see.

Bittenfeld never really understood what he was babbling on about, but considering that he hadn’t yet died of a blood infection like many others after a visit to a so-called doctor, he was content to let Mecklinger do whatever he wanted to his equipment as he wished. Mecklinger was much more educated than anyone else here, bar maybe Oberstein, so Bittenfeld also trusted him to know what he was doing.

Mecklinger threads the needle on the first try and he hesitates a little, the metal needle gleaming from the flames flickering beneath the stove. He glances at Bittenfeld briefly. “Did you need to bite down on something?”

Bittenfeld is about to snap something back when Muller peeks in, silver hair falling across his forehead as he holds the door open with a booted foot. He’s got a tray in both his hands, piled high with a massive plate of meat, a small stack of bread rolls take up the remainder of the space. Bittenfeld licks his lips and swallows at the tempting smell wafting from the food.

“Not done yet?” Muller asks, placing the tray down on the tiny table next to the door that doubled as Mecklinger’s writing desk. Muller has to nudge a couple of ink pots to the side to make enough space for the full tray.

“Almost,” Mecklinger replies and Bittenfeld bites back a yelp as the needle stabs through his side for the first stitch.

“Reinhard’s gone again,” Muller says, apropos of nothing and Bittenfeld is grateful for the kid trying to make some conversation to distract him from the needle sewing up his side.

“I heard that this time he couldn’t stop his sister or Kircheis from following him,” Mecklinger says, still half distracted.

Muller hums thoughtfully. “Not sure if they’ll ever be back then. Kircheis and Annerose were the only things that kept him tied here.” He shrugs. “Oberstein said that their place is boarded up solidly as if they’re not planning on coming back for a while.”

Bittenfeld snorts, not surprised. The blond brat often wandered in and out of the town, despite wearing the sheriff’s badge, actively hunting out bandits and the like. Preventative measures, he often liked to say. Despite his young age though, Reinhard could outshoot anyone in a hundred-mile radius, his draw quicker than any eye could follow.

“You’ll need a new sheriff then,” Bittenfeld says and pretends that Mecklinger’s not still passing needle and thread through his very skin.

Muller eyes him almost hopefully. “I know you’ve said you don’t want to put down any roots,” he starts, hesitant and not a little shy. “But we could do with your help.”

Bittenfeld shakes his head sharply. He knows that Muller looked up to him in a way that he didn’t really deserve after that one incident in the first year of their acquaintance. “Naw. I like the road too much,” he tells Muller, a little gruff but not unkindly. “Maybe one day, when I’m old and tired, I’ll think about settling down. But it’s not going to be now.”

“I think,” Mecklinger adds quietly, tying up the thread tight finally, to Bittenfeld’s relief, “The two gentlemen who rode in yesterday are here for the sheriff and deputy’s roles.”

They speak of nothing more serious than town gossip for the rest of the afternoon, as they eat the supper that Muller had brought up for the three of them to share.

As it draws even later, the sun falling behind the horizon, Bittenfeld trots out stories of his last few months on the road, of all the bounties he’s collected since he last saw Muller. And, if during his tales, he lets himself embellish a little, removes some of the struggles and suffering, paints himself in a slightly more heroic light just so Muller’s smile returns, then so be it.

When he finally stumbles back into his room, the moon is up high. Bittenfeld sleeps deeply that night, out like a light the moment his head hits the soft pillow. He doesn’t think about staying.

It’s barely two days later when Muller pokes his head in after a cursory knock just as Bittenfeld’s packing his saddlebags.

“Leaving already?” Muller has that concerned look hovering about his expression again. He glances at Bittenfeld’s injured side, sewn and patched by Mecklinger just days ago.

“Yeah,” Bittenfeld nods but doesn’t stop packing. He had gotten a tip from another stranger passing through last night, and it looked like his bounty was living high in a town just over in the neighboring county - a week’s worth of a ride on a fast horse.

Muller stands quietly at the doorway. Bittenfeld glances over after a while and sighs. Muller was much too soft-hearted for a place like this, surrounded by nothing but sand and too many people who’d pull their gun over nothing more than a crooked hand of poker.

“C’mon kid, I’ll be back soon enough after I collect the bounty.” He pulls a couple of silver coins from a side pocket and tucks it into Muller’s hand.

“For the room and Mecklinger’s services,” Bittenfeld tells him when Muller opens his mouth to protest. “How do you expect to keep this place open and running if no one pays?” He snorts a laugh and pats Muller surprisingly gently on the shoulder as he walks past.

"See you next time, Muller."

*


End file.
